


Fondest Regards

by nagia



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Graphic Assassination, Sniping Via Bow & Arrow, The Crows Send Their Regards, throat cutting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-20 23:49:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15544959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagia/pseuds/nagia
Summary: Noteveryassassination fails.





	Fondest Regards

**Author's Note:**

> For the challenge over on FFA, "100 Words Of On-Screen Assassination." Somewhat more than 100 words, but I'm happy with it.

The brush had left sticky swirls of a substance he almost couldn't see along the tips and edges of his arrows, and even onto the shafts. He'd held one up to the light, and the gleam had been brighter along the metal.

Lanthrax was such an ugly, unkind thing to use on a man, but the patron had wanted the death slow.

As it was, Zevran stood smoothly from where he'd been crouching in the crow's nest and checked his sightline once more. It was still clear. He would have the shot, if the wind didn't carry his arrow away. If the stench of the harbor didn't distract him, or a sail snap and unfurl at the wrong moment.

He tested the wind with a finger, then settled in to wait. That was the worst of it, really, the thing that the Crows could not have prepared him for. Pain was nothing to a Crow, but boredom --

He tilted his head very slightly, identifying his patron's enemy. There, hurrying through the street on the way to the harbor, seeking what he assumed was safety aboard his ship. He was looking over his shoulder, like death was going to come from behind, like he expected a knife in the ribs.

Not a complete fool, then. But almost nobody looked _up_.

The bow was hardly even a weight anymore. The string didn't creak as he pulled it close to his cheek -- but not too close, not so close any part of it touched -- and past his ear. But it sang when he loosed it, the arrow spiralling silently down.

A good longbow can launch an arrow some four hundred paces, striking with about fifty pounds in force, in an area smaller than an elven child's fist. He almost didn't need to look, but of course he did. A Crow always confirmed his kills.

He'd aimed not for the heart but for the shoulder just above it. A fatal wound -- or at least one to make that arm useless -- with enough time, but today, it would send the lanthrax pumping through the body much faster. If someone were to take the arrow out, the death would take days. 

Unhurried, Zevran climbed down from the crow's nest (really, it was an excellent pun; one he hoped he would be well compensated for), dropping from the rigging to the deck below. He made his way to the gangplank, all exaggerated concern, and lifted the man up.

No one else on the ship seemed to have any inclination to assist. It would seem the new owner had briefed the sailors.

He pressed his mouth to the man's cheek in a good mock of tenderness, and murmured, "The Crows send their regards." He paused, drawing a knife from his boot, and then added, "And so does Isabela."

He angled the body to avoid mess. The knife flashed bright against dark skin, and blood sprayed, red and hot, over the boards. The copper tang mixed almost immediately with the salt of the sea, the sweet rot of long-dead fish, the must of algae and barnacles.

He used the same knife to carefully work the arrow from the body, which he wrapped in oil cloth, and finally stood, careful of the puddle around his new boots. Time to report in to the patron.

He did wonder how grateful she might be.


End file.
